music revolting in delicate veins
by windofbanners
Summary: L'Orchestre de La Patrie is the oldest and greatest of France's chamber orchestras. It is also the source of the headache raging inside Enjolras' head at the moment. "Graintaire, put the bottle down." [EnjolrasEponine] Ensemble Cast.


**A/N**: Guys, my love for all things Les Mis is honestly SCARING ME and my love for Enjonine is OUT OF CONTROL. I am determined to jump off of this ever-sailing ship of obsessive doom.

….So of course I decided to write a multichapter fic that will probably take over my life soon, take a look

* * *

The music is beginning.

Slowly, slowly, the first shimmering note slides gracefully into the air, the sound of the violin trembling softly. One by one, the rest of the strings join in, tuning their strings, fiddling with their instruments, and then the woodwinds next, and then the horns. As the sound of a trumpet flares into the air, Enjolras winces slightly. _Flat, _he thinks to himself, creasing his brow; he unknits it a moment later when the note rises once more, this time pure and in tune with the rest of the orchestra.

From his place at the back of the auditorium, Enjolras claps his hands behind his back and closes his eyes, letting himself take a moment to soak himself in the sound, the throaty roar of instruments that is growing continuously louder and even more vibrant, setting his bones trembling, his heart thrumming. This sound is the soil for the music that they will create, the symphonies and concertos of ancient times, and it is powerful and –

"_Mon dieu, _Feiully just got _spit_ on my arm!" Joly. Of course.

Enjolras opens his eyes and sighs before picking up his baton and striding briskly down the aisles towards his place on the stage. His work, he believes, will never be done.

* * *

_L'Orchestre de La Patrie_, founded in 1832, is the oldest and greatest of France's chamber orchestras. It is also, as Graintaire so eloquently puts it, Enjolras' one and only mistress.

Named after the fatherland of France itself, it has its roots entrenched deep within France's history, born from a time of turmoil, nursed from the blood of brothers. Its current home is located in a concert hall not far from the banks of the Seine, a magnificent old theater by the name of _Le Teatre de les Barricades, _named after some obscure rebellion back in the 1800s that Enjolras has never cared enough to look up.

For percussion, they have Graintaire on drums and Jean on piano. For woodwinds, Joly on clarinet, Cosette on flute, and Feiully on the oboe, for brass, Marius on the trumpet, Fantine on the trombone, and Javert on the French horn. And for strings, Coureyferac on bass, Bousset on the cello, Musichetta on the viola, Combeferre on the second violin, and Lamarque on the first, with Enjolras in charge of them all as the wielder of the baton, the leader of the orchestra – to put it shortly, the _conducteur. _

For all of their bickering, for all of Graintaire's not-so-secret drinking problem, for all of Jean's tendencies to wax poetical, for all of Cosette's incessant babble, they are undoubtedly the best group of musicians that Enjolras has ever conducted.

Thy are also the source of the headache raging inside his head at the moment.

"Graintaire, put the bottle down, it's not even ten. Joly, your reeds are clean, now let it go." He snaps his fingers to break up Musichetta's flirting and raps his baton against the stand. "Marius, focus on your music please, and not the flutist, and Cosette, put the mirror away before I snap it to pieces."

"But that'll give you seven years of bad luck, Monsieur," she shoots back, batting her lashes, but Enjolras has long since developed immunity to the wiles of such French maidens.

"I'll take my chances," he says dryly. He chances a glance at his watch and realizing it's well past nine already, frowns. "Now, I want you all to open to the fifth act of the Shostakovich and take it from the thirtieth measure, fifth line down."

He flicks his baton, and somehow, the mess of musicians in front of him gather themselves to come in by the fourth beat, and the familiar sounds of Shostakovich's 7th symphony are soon pounding through the empty auditorium.

To an onlooker, it would sound flawless. To Enjolras, it is a mess.

"Stop." Thirteen faces turn to gaze at him, and he wastes no time in letting them know of their incompetence.

"Javert, do you legitimately think that that fart of yours could pass for a French horn? It should be soft, but strong, not disgusting to the ears." Javert shoots him a dark look but Enjolras ignores him and focuses his attention elsewhere.

"Strings, you cannot just come in, you must _crescendo in_, flare into life itself," he says impatiently, jabbing his baton towards Bousset.

He abandons addressing Bousset alone and sweeps his hand across the orchestra sitting in front of him. "We are telling a story here, we are starting a rebellion, we are fighting a war!"

He flips the page. "Now, take it from measure 46, and I want to hear the brasses put some emotion into it, please."

They try his patience, they do. They're grumbling and moaning as they flip to the right page, and he's sure that if looks could kill, Javert's glare would be sending bullets into his red coat by now. But as the music swells around him once more, he can see nothing but concentration on their faces, nothing but the music rising in their eyes.

Later, they will all go to _L'Musain _and have a drink, and he'll sit there with his scores and ignore Combeferre and Graintaire's efforts to get him drunk. Cosette will make moon eyes at Marius and he'll give her cow eyes straight back, and he'll leave when it gets late with a stern warning not to get too drunk that they'll cheerfully ignore. He'll walk home through the streets of Paris, brush off his red coat, and then fall asleep with music echoing in his ears.

"Give me the crescendo here, give it your all!" He has lived like this for the past seven years, and has found a raging peace in living a life with such certainty. Abandoning all rational thought, he thrusts his hands forwards, urging on the drums, and loses himself in the music.

As long as he has his music, he will never live lonely. He'd be happy if things never changed.

* * *

"Where's Lamarque?" Enjolras frowns to himself, marking notes on his score, when he realizes that the question is being directed towards him and looks up into Fantine's blue eyes.

"Lamarque? Perhaps he is just late." As soon as the words come out of his mouth, he realizes how terribly stupid he sounds, and he waits for someone to voice it.

"But Lamarque is never late, Enjolras," Musichetta supplies, rolling his eyes in a blatant display of _men-are-such-idiots_. "He's the only one in the orchestra who can live up to your fanaticism, conductor!"

Enjolras ignores both the jibe and the sudden worry quivering within him. As the first violin and the concertmaster, Lamarque is the sagacious grandfather of the orchestra, the only member who didn't require babysitting and had been with _L'Patria _before Enjolras himself, and him being late was, until today, unheard of.

But as conductor, he straightens the lapels of his red coat, and keeping a cool face, reminds his orchestra that Lamarque had been looking a bit under the weather as of late before bullying them into their seats.

They're deep into the ninth of Mahler's symphonies, Enjolras lost and cradled within the dark folds of the music, when a tugging on his waistcoat jerks him out of his reverie. Turning around with a frown, he sees Gavroche looking at him, and the orchestra peters out as they see the small figure standing on the stage.

"Yes?" Enjolras says the word curtly. The boy was pleasant enough, always hanging around the theater with ruddy cheeks and a swift smile, befriending many of the members (Graintaire sometimes let him play the triangle and Coureyferac absolutely doted on him), and he seemed to live for the music as much as the musicians themselves, sitting in the shadows for hours, silently listening to the music, but he of all people should have known _never_ to disturb the orchestra during practice.

The boy scrubs a dirty hand under his nose, looking at Enjolras unashamedly despite his crime. "Lamarque tol' me to tell you that he can't come anymore."

Enjolras blinks. "What?"

Gavroche shrugs. "'E came down wi' a case o' the cholera. 'Is father tol' me to tell you that he's takin' him home to get better." The boy pats his pocket, looking a bit smug. "Gave me a few francs for me trouble too."

When he finishes speaking, worried murmurs from the orchestra bubble over into a crash of sound, and Enjolras feels terribly for the man, he really does, but any noise around him is drowned out by the roaring in his ears because _how the hell is an orchestra supposed to survive without its first violinist? _

* * *

That night at _L'Musain, _after the flimsiest excuse for a rehearsal he's ever conducted, Enjolras calls Lamarque with his mobile set to speaker phone, with the orchestra crowding around him, loquacious until the man himself picks up.

The violinist lays it out simply – he'd been feeling sickly for a while now, and when his body had finally broken down, as much as he hated to leave them like this, he'd truthfully been glad when his father had called him home. He begs for forgiveness profusely, and his voice breaks when he asks them to understand why he has to leave.

Lamarque sounds terrible, his voice a mere thread, and Enjolras wonders how the veritable powerhouse that had supported him when he first came to _L'Patria _had been reduced to this old man – and more importantly, how he himself had missed it.

So he tells Lamarque gently that he understands, and that there is nothing to forgive, and the orchestra members around him murmur in agreement, a few tears even being shed on the part of the women.

But after he hangs up, and his friends slowly float away to order drinks and talk about the day, reality crashes back onto his shoulders because there's no getting around it – they are an orchestra short a first violin.

Within moments, the guilt of the past and the stress of the future converge into a blinding headache that bullies Enjolras into doing the unthinkable: He signals the bartender and orders a drink.

Five shots later, he's wallowing in his emotions and glaring at the glass in his hand darkly, ignoring the wide eyes undoubtedly trained on him and questioning his sanity. _What kind of a self-respecting orchestra could play without a first violinist? _He drains his glass despairingly and slams it down on the table, gesturing wearily for the bartender to fill it up again.

He has spent his life training for this, has lived his life for the music, only for the music, and

But he will not let this be the end of _L'Patria. _He straightens his back unconsciously and forces his hand away from his drink. Yes, finding a new first violinist on such short notice would be difficult, but he has spent his life training for this, and he will find a way to carry on this flag if it means his death.

Adjusting his red coat, he waves over his orchestra, who, as he suspected, has gathered in a corner of the bar and is staring at him worriedly, no doubt discussing whether he had finally lost it. As soon as they hustle over, he clears his throat and says his bit.

"We will be holding auditions within the next week for Lamarque's replacement. Please let your connections within the musical community know of this opportunity."

With all the enthusiasm of avid musicians, the people around him break into relieved chatter, offering up names and references, of friends of friends of friends, but all of the sound is a buzz in his ears. Tomorrow, he will listen, but for tonight he just wants to sleep.

Breaking free from the crowd, he heads wearily for the door, intent on getting home to his bed, but Marius somehow pulls him aside before he gets there, babbling on excitedly about some friend of his that just so happens to play the violin. Enjolras finally shakes him off by mumbling a few _ouis _and _sonne biens _and walks out the door, hands in his pockets.

He's not drunk per se, just tired. Tomorrow, he'll be back to his normal self.

* * *

"Excuse me, is that a Stradivarius?"

The guy standing on the stage looks down at the instrument in his hands like he expects it to whisper to him the answer. "Um…no?"

"Good." Enjolras rubs his forehead with a weary hand. "Then I give you permission to bash it over your head."

The man opens his mouth to protest but Enjolras waves him away before he has a chance to speak, motioning for Combeferre to take him away. When the stage is empty once again, he allows himself to slump into his seat and wallow in despair for a long moment.

The last two hours of the audition have utterly shattered his already feeble faith in the human race. From the fresh-faced girl who didn't know the meaning of a chromatic scale to the elderly man who tried to _demand money for his playing _(Enjolras had him kicked out immediately), the prospects so far have been dismal and nowhere up to his standards.

With his deteriorating mood, he's started to become quite sharp to the candidates, even almost reducing a young girl to tears and inducing glares of warning amongst the orchestra members sitting behind him, but he isn't trying to be cruel at all. To put it simply, he expects nothing less than complete and utter dedication to the profession, and if the music isn't already flowing in the veins, pumping through the heart, rushing through the mind, then it isn't going to appear anytime soon, and if there's one thing that he can't stand, it's wasting his time.

"Enjolras!" Marius breaks him out of his thoughts by appearing in front of him, beaming inexplicably.

"Yes?" he says in response, straightening his posture and trying to regain his poise. He is Marius' friend, but as long as they are in _Le Barricade, _he is also his conductor, and he wants to be the type of leader that his musicians can trust.

Marius' smile grows wide, if possible. "She's here!" After seeing the politely interested look on Enjolras' face, he clarifies. "My friend, the one I told you about?"

Enjolras frowns, sifting through a week's worth of foggy memories. "The violinist? Ellanore? Elisamarie?"

"Eponine," says Marius, seeming not at all put out that he doesn't remember. "She's the one that we need, I know it."

Enjolras sighs and scans his itinerary. The next candidate is already fifteen minutes late, which already makes him already as good as rejected, so he figures that he has nothing else to lose.

(Except his mind. But he digresses).

He nods to Marius. "Bring her in." Marius lights up and rushes away, disappearing backstage before reappearing and pulling a small figure after him.

The orchestra members behind him murmur in interest; he can hear Musichetta exclaiming in envy over her body and can almost feel the way Coureyferac is undoubtedly eyeing the girl, but all Enjolras feels is despair.

Hidden within a huge, oversized coat, riddled with holes and stains, with a newspaper boy's cap perched on her head, the person could easily be mistaken for a young _gamine _instead of the _fille _that Marius claimed she was. Compared to the other women in the orchestra – Enjolras flickers his eyes over to Cosette, dressed in pink and lace, Musichetta, in a low cut, deep red sweater, Fantine, simply but neatly put together – she does not seem legitimate at all.

He catches Marius' eyes and with a jerk of his head, beckons him over. The man claps the girl on the shoulder, murmuring something into her ear, before jogging down the steps and coming towards him with happiness on his face.

"I'm so glad you're giving her this chance, she really – "

"Are you serious, Marius?" Enjolras hisses, none too gently. "You bring me a girl that looks like this and you expect me to believe that she's the one?"

Marius actually looks angry for once. "Look, she can play. Don't believe her, don't blame me, just listen to her and you'll get it."

Enjolras narrows his eyes. "Fine." He jabs Marius in the chest. "But if she's just another waste of my time, I will stab you in the jugular with the baton."

He turns towards the stage and raps his baton against the stand – perhaps a tad bit more forcefully than he had too – and calls the room to order.

"We will be auditioning next – " he glances at Marius, who mouths the name to him. " – Mademoiselle Eponine Jondrette." He gives a short nod of acknowledgement to the girl, for although he's sure he knows how the next ten minutes will play out, he will refrain from total judgment until he hears her play. "Please, take all the time you need."

As she's tuning her instrument and fiddling with the nodes though, Enjolras sinks his forehead into his hand once more. He can already tell just by looking at the way she's holding her violin under her chin that this is going to be a disaster because, m_on dieu_, she's holding the violin like a _gorilla_, and when she hefts the bow into her hand with fingers like a crab's, he can't bear to remain silent any longer.

"Mademoiselle," he calls out. She looks up. "Mademoiselle, please look at your grip. Did you happen to learn to play on the streets?"

Instead of sputtering an answer or blushing like an _imbecile, _the girl simply lifts her chin slightly and continues to meet his eyes, the moment crescendoing into one that stirs unease into Enjolras' mind. Even in the harsh stage lights, her eyes are darker than any he's ever seen before, and he has the disconcerting feeling that she heard every word that he said to Marius

When she speaks, her voice is throaty and low, the voice of an old woman in a young girl's mind.

"In fact, Monsieur, I did."

Before Enjolras can even formulate a response to her reply, she swiftly lifts her bow to the strings, brings down her arm, and everything else falls away.

* * *

"My god, she's a genius." Grantaire says, draining his glass in the next breath and slamming it down for more. He beams at the bartender when she fills him up again before tuning his attention back to his friends. "Absolutely brilliant."

The rest of _Les Amis _nod and murmur in consent, sprawled in varying levels of intoxication around their corner of the bar. It's well into the night already, but somehow the conversation has returned to the girl from the streets like some never-ending circle.

"Why didn't you hire her on the spot?" Feuilly asks, inspiring more sounds of agreement from the assembled crowd.

Enjolras just shakes his head and stays silent, not looking up from the sheets of music neatly stacked in front of him. His friends however, are used to this.

Coureyferac elbows him in the back. "Y'know you're a bloody idiot if you let someone like her get away."

"In more ways than one," Graintaire quips in, grinning lecherously at Joly. From that of course, the men turn into a laughing muddle of innuendos and euphemisms, but Enjolras withdraws even further, lapsing into the memory of how the afternoon finished.

When the girl had finished playing, the entire orchestra had erupted into noise and rushed the stage, clapping her on the shoulder, pumping her hand, ruffling her hair, but Enjolras had stayed silent, pinned to his seat like a paper butterfly by the force of the music that had just struck him.

When he had finally composed himself, he cleared his throat and listened as the auditorium fell silent, faces turning towards him in anticipation. He met her eyes and was struck again by how dark they were, even under the glittering stage lights.

"Nocturne in C Sharp Minor?" She nodded silently, and he was struck by how she had faded back into her shabby and ragged first impression, when, moments before, he had seen her as slender fingers dancing over an ebony fingerboard, slim figure swaying dreamily on a golden stage. "Interesting choice."

Jean broke in here, with face glowing, hands moving in a frenzy. "Beautiful choice by a beautiful girl! The emotion poured into the performance! The aching pain that resonated through every note!"

"And a piece by Chopin himself!" Feiully added in quickly, when Jean paused for breath. "Not that I'm particular to Polish composers, or Poland in general, but – "

Enjolras silenced both of them with the lift of an eyebrow before turning his attention back to Eponine.

"Thank you Mademoiselle." Her face is impassive and instinctively, Enjolras schools his face to show the same emotionless. "We will be in touch with you shortly."

The presence of a person settling down next to him brings him back to reality, the noise of the bar filtering back to full volume as Enjolras blinks away the image of the girl slipping off the stage and disappearing into the gloom of backstage. Looking to his right, he sees Coureyferac laughing and clutching a shot in his hand.

The man looks over and grins at him. "Seriously, why _didn't_ you hire the _gamine_? You said you wanted a person who could play, didn't you?

"She seemed like a nice girl too." Joly supplies helpfully, always ready to see the best in people. "Quiet, not too dramatic. She would fit in perfectly."

Quickly, the attention of the group focuses on Enjolras, and he sighs, realizing that they expect an answer.

"It just seems like she's..." he trails off, trying to find a word for the level of darkness that he saw in her eyes. For the first time, he's lost for words, so he settles for something simpler. "Hiding something."

There's a moment of silence, and then his so-called _amis_ break out into laughter.

"Jean, is that you?" Graintaire hoots. "Getting in touch with your feminine side?"

Jean shoots him the finger but the grin on his face shows that he isn't taking the words to heart. "Ah, _mis amis_, I wish. Might be Combeferre though, with his philosophy and all."

The men once again collapse into good-natured ribbing, but Combeferre himself slides next to Enjolras and glances at him with a look that's a little too keen for comfort. "Why're you hesitating?"

Enjolras looks up from his score to glance at his friend. "I was thinking that you would want to be the concertmaster," he remarks, trying to switch the subject. "It's about time for you to stop sitting second chair."

Combeferre rolls his eyes at him before taking a swig of his beer. "You and I both know that that girl from the streets has more talent in her pinky finger than in my entire body combined," he says dryly. "I don't know why you're being so stubborn, but as your friend and your musician, I'm advising you to get over your stubborn pride and call her before some other orchestra snaps her up."

He stays silent because what can he say? He doesn't know why he's being so stubborn either.

Graintaire's roar pulls Enjolras from his contemplation. "Anyways, Bahorel need a new woman to woo!"

The men laugh and Coureyferac smirks. "When's the last time you had a woman in your bed, eh?"

Bahorel drains his glass and slams it onto the table. "The last time I had you in my bed, _idiot_!" The men whoop good-naturedly and the bar cheers as a playful scuffle begins to regain their lost honor.

Enjolras sighs and then rises to his feet, collecting his scores into an ordered pile. "And this, gentlemen, is when I bid you _adieu_. Good night."

His friends call out their farewells as Enjoras leaves the small, brightly-lit tavern to enter the cold darkness of the Parisian winter. The stars above him are shining with all of God's glory, the river Seine a rippling wave of black silk, but he walks home oblivious to the beauty around him.

Some part of him is still hesitant to hire the girl. Her music was beautiful, yes, but it was _too_ beautiful, and if his friends could hear him now, they would undoubtedly clobber him over the head because he was always demanding emotion in their playing, but hers was different.

It felt far too much. Her music seemed to weep and rage and scream all at the same time, and the girl – Eponine, her name was – played with so much emotion that he thinks that if she played forever, he could easily fall in and drown in it.

He likes a life of certainty, of measured music in which the beats can be numbered – and he's not entirely sure where she will belong in this score.

But in his heart, Enjolras already knows what his decision will be. Yes, her grip was atrocious, and yes, she is undoubtedly hiding something in those eyes of hers, but she is the only one who can save his _Patria _from complete and utter ruin, and for the good of his orchestra, she is exactly what they need.

He calls her from his mobile as he's still making the trek home. The phone rings twelve times before her answering machine scratches to life and Enjolras is able to deliver his message. In clipped sentences, he lays out precisely the pragmatics and details, where they practice, what time they meet, and concludes by saying that the job is hers, should she want it.

She never calls him back but she's there the next morning when he walks in, her fingers tapping out a concerto and her eyes as dark as night.

* * *

**A/N**: Feedback is so very appreciated, it really does make a poor girl's day. (But legit guys, I'm broke. If you don't have time for a review, then I also accept cash, credit, and check.) At the very least, leave behind a word or two :)

To my Harry Potter readers: My story, _bones, _has been nominated for Best Overall Angst Story in the HPFC Midnight Angst Awards! Go to the profile of _our dancing days _and vote through the poll at the top. Voting ends on April 1st, so run on over and check it out, I promise to love you forever!

To my Avengers readers: I AM SO. SORRY. but I promise that _painting paper hearts _and _In The Spirit of Giving _WILL be finished if it the last thing I do! They have not been abandoned…just very neglected for the moment (I will fix that).

~Cat


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